


Birthday For My Sweetheart

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can think of a bunch of reasons as to why birthdays are awful affairs, but now he can also think of at least one reason why they aren't. Part of the Cold Academic Hell 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday For My Sweetheart

Dean turns twenty-eight today.

Logically, he knows that twenty-eight isn’t as old as his brain is trying to convince him it is, but the instant he wakes up and remembers what day it is he still can’t help thinking, without pause, _I’m getting old._

Then he gets up and goes to the bathroom, ostensibly so that he can brush his teeth and get ready to go to school, and then, after that, work. Except for the fact that it’s two hours earlier than he normally gets up, someone else might even be able to believe that line of bullshit. Dean, however, is privy to his own thoughts, and so he knows the real reason why he hovers over the sink, staring at his reflection in their ancient, streaky mirror. Turning his head from side to side. Is he going grey? Their father had been starting to go silver, a little bit, which is what Dean’s hoping for. Ladies dig the whole silver fox look, and he’s sort of hoping that Castiel will feel the same way.

Castiel’s hair will probably never turn grey. Lucky guy.

There’s no grey (or silver) at his temples, so Dean brushes his teeth and shaves, but not without keeping one eye on the reflection of his hairline, monitoring it. Like he’s worried that it’ll start receding any second.

Which, obviously, it won’t, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful, right?

“Morning,” Sam says to him, once he’s worked up the nerve to go out into the kitchen. The coffeemaker gurgles almost viciously in the background. Funny how he once thought that was a soothing noise.

He almost finds himself craving a cup of tea.

“Mm,” he says, and drops down into his chair at the kitchen table. Sam peers at him over his customary glass of orange juice. A half-eaten bagel – smothered in strawberry cream cheese – sits on a plate in front of him. Sam’s been up for a while.

“Dean,” he says, and then stops, like he’s not sure if he wants to continue. Then he clears his throat. “Happy birthday.”

Dean glares like Sam just killed a kitten in front of him. Sam rolls his eyes.

“You do this _every year_ ,” he says, half disgusted and half amused. Then he tilts his glass of orange juice back and drains it while Dean continues to scowl.

“I do not.”

“Yes! Every year since you turned twenty-five! You’re not even _thirty_ yet, Dean, you don’t even count as middle-aged.”

“Oh God.” He’s just pictured himself wearing pants with the waist pulled up to his chest, a shirt with a pocket on the right breast, carrying a golf club. Oh God.

“ _Stop_. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

Dean shakes his head. “Leave it alone.”

“Fine. But I’m telling you, however old you’re picturing yourself? Subtract like, twenty, and that’s how old you actually look.”

He’s not about to say it out loud, but that – having real, quantifiable numbers to work with – actually sort of _helps_. He’d looked in the mirror this morning and pictured a fifty year-old with greying hair and tired eyes, and Sam’s telling him that he’s closer to thirty. Which he is.

Sam nibbles at his bagel, the smug fuck, and Dean eventually gets tired of looking at his brother’s face and goes to get himself a cup of coffee.

It’s not as satisfying as he remembers it being.

~

Somebody calls him just as he’s sitting down in his religious studies class. Dean freezes up immediately as the classmates sitting around him – including Sam – stare first at him, and then at his pocket – which is playing a tinny, truncated version of “Back in Black” – in abject horror.

Professor Crowley, standing at the front of the room with a wineglass in one hand and a tiny sandwich in the other, raises his eyebrows.

“I believe I made my feelings towards cellular phones _abundantly_ clear in my syllabus,” he says. Dean fumbles to pull his phone out of his pocket, haphazardly punching the _mute_ button until it goes into vibrate mode. It rings twice more, shaking in Dean’s hand, and then stills.

“If you have not read the syllabus,” Crowley continues, “then that is _your_ mistake, and you will be punished regardless. I’m feeling rather charitable today…” He raises his glass. “…As one of you was kind enough to leave a rather nice bottle of Merlot in my staff mailbox. If that was an attempt to inform my colleagues of my habits in the classroom, then it has failed. If it was an attempt to get on my good side, congratulations, it’s worked. Don’t expect extra credit if you come forward, though. Now, today we’ll be discussing…”

“Dude,” Sam whispers, “what the hell? You forgot to turn your phone off?”

“No one but you calls me!”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard Dean’s worried his face will break. “What about your new _boyfriend_?”

Dean pauses, and then shakes his head, decisively. “He wouldn’t. He knows when I have class.”

“You’ve been officially dating for like, two days. He already knows your schedule?”

“Shh!”

They both fall silent as Crowley’s hawk-like gaze sweeps over them. Dean waits for their professor to take another swig of wine before glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

“Trust me, it’s not him.”

And he’s proven right a few minutes later, when he gets a text message. Dean can count on one hand the number of people who both know his number and own a phone that can text, and since Sam is sitting right next to him, Dean isn’t surprised when he flips his phone open and sees a message from Ellen waiting for him.

Bobby Singer owns Singer Salvage, to be sure. It’s his name on the deed to the land and his name on the sign to the garage, but everyone – including Bobby – knows that Ellen Harvelle is queen of the lot. She’s not a co-owner, not officially, but when Bobby eventually decides to retire it’ll be Ellen and her daughter, Jo, who get Singer Salvage. Following the “better safe than sorry” rule, Dean treats them both as his bosses, and even Jo gets a measure of respect that the other employees – mostly temps who only work for a couple weeks before moving on – never receive.

“Who is it?” Sam whispers, and Dean elbows him in the side. Sam grunts irritably; he never once stops taking notes.

“Ellen,” Dean says.

The message reads as follows:

 _Dean your friend called and asked if you could have the day off since it’s your birthday. I said yes so you work the late shift on Saturday instead. Tell Sam I said hello._

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, and Sam snorts.

“Which is it? Ellen or Jesus?”

“ _Smartass_. No one over the age of thirty-five knows how to text. It’s freaking sad.”

“I had to _teach_ you how to text.”

Crowley coughs; both of them freeze, staring straight ahead. Sam’s hand moves mechanically, still taking notes.

“Apologies,” their professor says. “I appear to be coming down with a bit of the plague. If any of you catch it and die, I’ll be sure to mention at your funeral what a mediocre student you were.”

Sam glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “What does she want?” he mouths.

“I get the day off,” Dean whispers back, for the moment not thinking of what Ellen could have meant by “your friend.” Sam’s face lights up like a Fourth of July barbeque.

“We can celebrate your birthday tonight!”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles. “Sure, Sammy. Sure.”

~

Dean gets out of class a little earlier than Sam, which means he’s usually stuck waiting in the student center while his brother finishes up. The student center is crowded today, though – some bullshit, college-sponsored event – and it’s too loud for him to just hang around and relax. So, he’s sitting in his car, stretched out in the back with his feet hanging out the open window and his head pillowed on the leather seat, humming softly.

Someone taps on the side of the car. Real small, hesitant. Three taps. Dean opens his eyes and sits up, pulling his feet back into the car.

It’s Castiel.

“Hey,” Dean says, a little startled, a little…Well, okay, pleased, obviously, but what’s Castiel doing here? Shouldn’t he be in his office, working? “Don’t you have students to advise?”

Castiel smiles at him. He’s got the goofiest smile, not goofy like _silly_ , but kind of awkward and polite and small, like he’s not used to smiling and the sensation of it is unfamiliar on his face. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Dean wants to kiss him.

 _Woah there, tiger,_ he thinks. That way lies madness, because he knows, without a doubt, that if he kisses Castiel right now it’ll be too soon. He’ll start freaking out over it and Castiel won’t know what the hell is going on, because it’s not like Dean goes around shouting at strangers about his commitment issues.

Castiel leans forward, although he’s careful not to put his hands on Dean’s car. Dean’s appreciation of him goes up a notch. Dude rule number four: you don’t mess with another dude’s car. Not without permission, anyways. “You mentioned that it is your birthday.”

That’s right, he did, didn’t he? While they’d been walking in the park, the snow slushing around their feet, he’d mentioned the date. None of his fears about getting older, yeah, but…the date.

“Which doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Dean says. He backtracks almost immediately. “Not that I don’t _want_ to see you, it’s just…you have work, don’t you? And how’d you know where I park, anyways?”

“I asked at the student center. Your car is very memorable, Dean.”

“That’s my baby.” Dean pats the seat, lovingly, and then scoots over and opens the door. Castiel backs away as Dean swings his feet out, and then stands. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, rocking a little on the balls of his feet. “Come to wish me a happy birthday, then? Before I wither away from old age?”

Castiel tilts his head. “I was thinking we could…go out to dinner? I know it is very soon to be asking, as I am given to understand that a minimum of three days is generally required between dates, but…”

Dean holds up his hands. “Woah, there, slow down. Three days? Dinner?”

“Yes. I consulted the internet on this matter, and the general consensus is that, in a new relationship, it is wise to ‘space out’ one’s dates. Three days between outings seemed to be the most common advice.”

“And…dinner?”

“Since it is your birthday, I thought that you might choose the restaurant. Perhaps a place with…wings?”

He looks so nervous, so… _earnest_. It startles a laugh out of him, surprisingly carefree, and then, looking around to make sure that no one is watching, Dean leans forward and lets their foreheads rest together. Not a kiss. Not quite.

Maybe later,

“I,” he says, and then abruptly remembers – this morning, class, Sam beaming at him as Dean said that yeah, they could celebrate his birthday tonight rather than the next day, and…

“Shit. I can’t.” Castiel leans backwards, frowning. “No, it’s not because I don’t want to, it’s…I promised Sam that we’d celebrate tonight. He usually has to do everything the day after, ‘cause I work.”

“I see.” Castiel’s frown his eased, but he’s got his head tilted, like he’s trying to hear a voice that’s coming from very far away. “I had hoped that ensuring you had the day off would...”

“Wait, that was you?” Dean laughs, nudging Castiel with his elbow. He laughs harder at Castiel’s disgruntled expression. “Aw, Cas, that’s the best birthday present ever. Time off. Exactly what I needed.”

“I am…glad that you will be able to spend the time with your brother, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says, because shit, Castiel looks _sad_ all of a sudden. “Hey, that doesn’t mean…we can still go out. We can still go out _today_!”

“Today?”

“’Course! You don’t mind getting a late lunch, do you? Or have you already eaten?”

“I do not usually have time to eat lunch. I use my break to work.”

“Well, then this is your lucky day.” Dean lays his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, gripping, not tight. “You still feel up to this?”

“Of course.” Christ, his eyes. His eyes are so blue. “I relish any opportunity to spend time with you. I find you…fascinating.”

Dean can’t stop grinning. He slowly takes his hand away, and then reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. He texts Sam, _where r u?_

A minute later he receives, _Use proper spelling and grammar, Dean. I’m on my way to the car right now._

Dean bites his lip and then glances first at his car, then at Castiel. Castiel in his trench coat and his corduroy jacket and his white shirt. Castiel with his blue, blue eyes and his dark mussed hair and his pale pink lips. Castiel with his elegant fingers. Castiel.

He texts Sam, _leaving keys in usual spot i’m going out DON’T HURT MY CAR_

 _Wait, what?_

Dean closes his phone, then stuffs it back into his pocket. He pulls his keys from his other pocket, and then, glancing at Castiel, he crosses around to the back of the car and gropes beneath for the little magnetic box that Sam had made him buy a while back. Sam can’t be more than a ten-minute walk away, and it’s a small campus. It’s okay. The car will be okay.

“Dean?”

Dean glances up. Castiel is shifting uncomfortably; he’s probably cold.

“Coming,” Dean says, and slides his key into key holder.

~

A few hours later, Dean steps back into his apartment. It’s almost six, and Dean is pleasantly surprised to find that Sam is not laying in wait for him, confetti and party hats in hand. The kitchen smells like baking, flour and the scent of melting chocolate. Dean turns the oven light on and glances at the cake sitting inside. There’s a cake mix box sitting on the counter. Chocolate molten lava mix. Buttercream icing.

“Dean?”

Dean turns quickly, smiling. “Sammy!”

Sam eyes him, up and down. “Nice scarf.” Dean reaches up, touching the navy-blue cashmere scarf that’s wound around his neck. It’s so soft; he’d almost forgotten it was there entirely.

“Thanks,” he says. “It was, uh. A gift.”

“From your boyfriend.”

“Yeah.” Shit. Is he grinning? Is he _blushing_? Sam is giving him this look, this “oh, isn’t he precious” look. Dean feels uncomfortable and awkward. He turns the oven light off and then brushes past Sam, pulling the scarf from around his neck and winding it around his hands. He heads down the hallway towards his room.

“You’ll tell me about him sooner or later!” Sam calls after him.

Dean kicks his bedroom door shut; the last thing he hears is Sam’s laughter out in the hall.

He holds the scarf in his hands, soft, still smelling faintly of Castiel, his hands, his car.

Dean raises it to his face and breathes in, hiding his smile.  



End file.
